A Lady of Expectations

CHAPTER SIX

FOR SOPHIE, the rest of Tuesday and all of Wednesday passed in a rosy-hued blur. As expected, Lady Cowper called, promising vouchers for Almack’s and her most earnest endeavours. Lucilla and her ladyship spent a full hour with their heads close together; Sophie stared absent-mindedly at the window, her expression distant. Recalled to the present when her ladyship rose, she flashed a bright smile and bade Lady Cowper farewell. The smile lingered, muted but nevertheless present, long after her ladyship’s carriage rattled away down the street.

“Well then, my dears.” Lucilla swept back into the drawing-room. Clarissa followed with Sophie trailing in the rear. “In the light of Lady Cowper’s remarks, we had best reconsider our strategy.”

Closing the door, Sophie made for the chaise, a slight blush tinting her cheeks. “How so, aunt?” She could not, in truth, recall all that much of Lady Cowper’s conversation.

With a long-suffering air, Lucilla raised her brows. “Because, my dear, if the ton is already in town then there’s no reason not to steal a march on those who have planned their entertainments to coincide with the usual start of festivities and already sent out their invitations.” Reclaiming her seat, she gestured to the pile of white cards upon the mantelshelf. “The list grows every day. I have it in mind to make our mark with a tactical manoeuvre, if I have the phrase correctly.”

Sophie tried to concentrate on her aunt’s meaning. Yet at every pause, her mind slid sideways, to ponder the subtleties in a certain deep voice, and the light that had glowed in his eyes. Frowning, she struggled to banish her distracting fascination. “So you mean to bring Clarissa’s come-out forward?”

Deep in thought, Lucilla nodded. “It seems strategically imperative-if she’s not out, she cannot be present at the rush of balls and parties which, as dear Emily pointed out, are this year going to precede the usual commencement.” Lucilla pulled a face. “Yet it’s not the sort of decision one takes lightly.” She pondered a moment, one elegant fingernail tapping on the chair arm. Then she straightened. “We have Lady Allingcott’s at-home this afternoon and Lady Chessington’s little party tonight, then Almack’s tomorrow-even they have started early this year. I pray you both to keep your ears open. Depending on what we all hear, I think we might start with an impromptu party, just for the younger folk, next week. And plan Clarissa’s ball for the week after that. My ideas are already well advanced; it will simply be a matter of bringing them forward a trifle.” Nodding to herself, Lucilla turned to Clarissa. “What say you to that, my dear?”

“It sounds wonderful!” Clarissa’s eyes radiated excited relief. “Indeed, I wasn’t looking forward to missing the balls in the next weeks.”

“And why should you?” Lucilla spread her hands wide. “This is your Season, my love; you’re here to enjoy it.” She smiled her subtlest smile. “As Madame Jorge said; we will contrive.”

Sophie had nothing to say against her aunt’s plans. Mr. Lester, of course, would not be present at the small, informal parties and dances held by the families with young girls making their come-out, to help the young ladies gain their social feet. Until Clarissa was officially out, the Webb ladies would be restricted to such tame affairs, which were all very well if there was nothing else on offer. But this year, this Season, was going to be different-and it wasn’t only the weather that would make it so for her.

They attended Lady Allingcott’s and Lady Chessington’s entertainments, and on Wednesday called on Lady Hartford and the Misses Smythe, then danced at Almack’s, all the while listening to what their peers had to say of projected entertainments.

Over breakfast the next morning, Lucilla called a council of war. “Now pay attention, Sophie.”

Thus adjured, Sophie blinked. And endeavored to obey the injunction.

“I’ve consulted with your father, Clarissa, and he’s in full agreement. We will hold your come-out ball at the end of the week after next.”

Clarissa crowed. Her younger brothers pulled faces and taunted.

“In the meantime, however,” Lucilla raised her voice only slightly; as her eagle eye swept the table the din subsided. “We’ll hold a dance at the end of next week-on Friday. An informal affair-but we need not restrict the guest list solely to those making their come-out. I see no reason not to invite some of those amongst the ton with whom you are already acquainted.”

Sophie knew her smile was almost as bright as Clarissa’s. Her aunt’s gaze, pausing meaningfully on her, sent her heart soaring. Ridiculous-but there was no other word for it-the exhilarating excitement that gripped her at the mere thought of seeing him again. She lived for the moment but, given he had not appeared at Almack’s-faint hope though that had been-it had seemed likely they would not meet again until Clarissa was out and they could move freely in society’s mainstream.

Unless, of course, he called to take her driving again.

She spent all morning with one ear tuned to the knocker. When the time for luncheon arrived and he had not called, she put her disappointment aside and, her smile still bright, descended to the dining-room. She was determined none of her cousins would guess her true state. As for her aunt, she had directed one or two pointed glances at her niece and once, she had surprised a look of soft satisfaction upon Lucilla’s face. That, of course, was inevitable.

It was at Mrs. Morgan-Stanley’s at-home later that day that her bubble of happiness was punctured.

On entering the Morgan-Stanleys’ large drawing-room, Lucilla immediately joined the circle of fashionable matrons gathered about the fireplace. Clarissa drifted across to the windows, to where the youngest of those present had shyly retreated to trade dreams. With a confident smile, Sophie joined a small group of young ladies for whom this was not their first Season. She was taking tea with them in their corner when, in the midst of a discussion on the many notables already sighted in town, Miss Billingham, a thin young lady with severe, pinched features, cast her an arch glance.

“Indeed! Miss Winterton, I fancy, can testify to the fact. Why, we saw you in the Park just the other morning, my dear, driving with Mr. Lester.”

“Mr. Lester?” Miss Chessington, a bright, cheerful soul, short, good-natured and of an indefatigably sunny temperament, blinked in amazement. “But I thought he never drove mere females.”

“Not previously,” Miss Billingham conceded with the air of one who had made a thorough study of the matter and was unshakeably certain of her facts. “But it’s clear he has, at last, realized he must change his ways. My mama commented on the point, even last Season.” When the others, Sophie included, looked their question, Miss Billingham consented to explain. “Well, it’s common knowledge that he must marry well. More than well-real money-for there are his brothers, too, and everyone knows the Lesters have barely a penny to bless themselves with. Good breeding, good estates-it’s the blunt that’s wanting.”

Sophie was not the only one who blinked at the crude term and the hard gleam in Miss Billingham’s eyes but, in her case, the action was purely reflex. Her mind was reeling; a horrible sinking feeling had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach. Her features froze in a polite mask, and a sudden chill swept through her.

“My mama has long maintained,” Miss Billingham declaimed, “that he’d have to come about. Too high in the instep by half, he spent all last Season searching for some goddess. Likely he’s come to the understanding that he cannot look so high.”

Miss Billingham looked at Sophie. The others, following her lead, did the same. Caught on a welling tide of despair, Sophie did not notice.

“I suppose, it being so early in the Season, he thought to amuse himself-get his hand in at the practice in safety, so to speak-by squiring you about, Miss Winterton.”

It was the rustling of skirts as the others drew back, distancing themselves from the snide remark, that shook Sophie from her trance. As Miss Billingham’s words registered, she felt herself pale. A cattish gleam of satisfaction flared in Miss Billingham’s eyes. Pride came to Sophie’s rescue, stiffening her spine. She drew in a steadying breath, then lifted her chin, looking down at Miss Billingham with chilly hauteur. “I dare say, Miss Billingham.” Her tone repressively cool, Sophie continued, “I can only assume that Mr. Lester could find no other to suit his purpose, for, as you say, I hardly qualify as a rich prize.”

At first, Miss Billingham missed the allusion; the poorly suppressed grins of the other young ladies finally brought Sophie’s words home. Slowly, Miss Billingham’s sallow complexion turned beet-red, an unhappy sight. She opened her mouth, casting a glance around for support. As she found none, her colour deepened. With a few muted